To worship the Sun working title
by MomochiNaruto
Summary: NOT TELLING! This is posted on TFF, for those who care. Whole, edited chapters will be posted here. This is a crossover, one I've NEVER seen before, and I'm using some ideas I've also never seen before. NOT SLASH. Most of Chap 3 up, will update soon.
1. What happened to our boy?

To worship the Sun (working title)

Chapter 1: What happened to our boy, exactly?

Key: (you should know what speech and thoughts look like now)

"Richmond, Virginia!"

The monocled woman stepped into the green-hued flames, calling out her destination. Floo travel was normally disorienting, but International Floo travel was much more so. The world spun for several minutes, before she was able to exit out the other side.

As she stepped over the threshold of the stone fireplace, the change in locality was obvious. The scent of the room was different, and it was much cooler in the small wooden building that she appeared in than it had been at the International Floo station she had just left in London. Dumbledore, and the British ambassador to America, Earnest Swambeck, stood near the external doorway, waiting for her, and brushing off the soot they had accumulated during their travel.

Earnest reached for the doorknob, twisting it and opening the door, gesturing with his free hand to her. "After you, Amelia."

On the other side, an American customs agent stood waiting patiently for their arrival, with the customs building a few dozen paces past him, through a heavily reinforced wrought iron gate. He approached the British trio, keeping his hands at his sides. If he had a wand, it was not visible, but he was clearly expecting them.

"Mister Dumbledore, Madame Bones, Ambassador Swambeck: welcome to America. I am Agent Jackson, United States Customs. Please follow me; your appointment is shortly, and the Secretary is a very busy man. He insists that all appointments be prompt."

The customs agent was smartly dressed, with a tailored black Muggle suit, oddly complimenting his short-cropped blond hair. The customs building beyond him was Spartan and undecorated save for the sign near the large doors, which read "US Customs Office". The building was a dark gray, slate-like color, interspersed with white bits, cut as smooth as glass; it appeared as though it were carved out of a single solid block of granite. The heavy wards on the structure were obvious from the extensive rune networks etched into the stone, to say nothing of what could be detected of them by the magically sensitive. There were not many windows.

Amelia responded, "After you." As they followed him, she spared a glance back at the entry building. It was tiny, not much larger than her own office. But there were no other structures, or anything else, nearby. 'A security precaution, perhaps?'

The agent turned and led the way through the gates, passing both Muggle and magical armed guards, who looked over the foreign guests suspiciously as they passed. Dumbledore commented, "This place seems oddly fortified. Are you expecting trouble?"

Without turning, the agent responded, "America is currently engaged in numerous hostilities, Mr. Dumbledore, in the Balkan peninsula, in various areas of the Middle East, and with our own local problems. This level of security is nothing new. You will probably see similar security around any buildings in America that support International Floo travel. The building ahead of you was constructed during wartime, and as such was built to withstand tremendous punishment."

Inside the building, more guards were present. The interior was unremarkable, for all appearances the same as any other customs office, save for the fact that the reception desks were unmanned, and there were no people awaiting passage into the country. Passing through a number of halls, the agent led them to a heavily reinforced, and quite clearly enchanted, doorway. "Please surrender your wands for a moment. The scanner will record the magical signatures of your person as you pass, but as you are foreign visitors we also need to record your wands."

Through the doorway, it was obvious what he was talking about. A sculpted bronze archway stood just inside the door, with all the more rune carvings on it. More guards stood nearby, and a receptionist sat at her desk a short distance past the archway. The three British visitors drew their wands, handing them to the agent, who then took all three to a small box upon a table next to the archway, placing them inside and closing the lid. The box was made of a reflective black material, with a glowing screen on the side. He motioned for them to step through the arch.

As they passed through, he retrieved their wands from the box, the scan obviously complete. Returning their wands, he gestured again for them to follow him, saying, "The Secretary's office is down this hall."

He turned and walked straight towards a blank wall near the receptionist, who did not even glance up from her work as he went by. Nor did she glance at the visitors. As they approached the wall, a haze appeared, before vanishing to reveal a hallway beyond the blank wall. A mahogany door, heavily carved and darkly stained was visible at the end of the hall. As they approached, the agent stopped, turning to say, "Please wait here. I will inform the Secretary of your arrival."

Neither Amelia nor Earnest wanted to talk while they waited, which left Dumbledore alone with his thoughts. 'Two years. Two years of searching. On top of nearly ten since Harry went missing.'

Initially, in the years following the Potters' deaths, and Harry's subsequent placement with his relatives, Dumbledore had kept close watch on the instruments he had tied to the boy, almost obsessively monitoring his well-being. Nearly three years after the fall of the Dark Lord, however, a long series of legislative battles consumed all the attention he could spare. After some initial anxiety, he convinced himself to stop worrying. He had Arabella keeping watch over the boy, after all. Surely, he had thought, she would report to him if anything happened. She had always been reliable, after all.

It wasn't until the boy's eighth birthday that he managed to find the time to meet with her. But when he called on her, there was no answer at her Floo. And when he visited her home unannounced, the house was empty. Empty and dead as a tomb, as though no one had lived there for years.

His initial thoughts about the house proved prophetic, because when he finally tracked her down, it turned out that she had been interred at the nearest cemetery to Privet Drive; the victim of a lorry accident nearly four years prior. He stood there before her gravestone for a long time, utterly in shock. It was the one possibility that had completely escaped him, that she might die on the job. It was only when he considered the implications of what that meant with regards to the reason she'd been stationed at Privet Drive in the first place that he started to panic.

For so long he'd assumed, effectively, that no news was good news. He had told her of the importance of Harry's security, after all, and how the best security was anonymity. And since his instruments never showed any problems, he hadn't thought to check. But she'd been dead nearly four years… Four years since anyone had checked up on Harry.

With all the speed that magic could grant his aging body, he rushed to Privet Drive to find that the Dursley family had moved out more than two years prior, and had left no forwarding address. A chill crawled up his spine: his instruments _definitely_ would have registered the Dursleys leaving. A thought, like a bolt of lightning, struck him. _Why? Why hadn't his instruments registered this?_

An examination of his instruments, however, gave him so strong a shock that it nearly killed him. The reason they had never responded, never showed anything, was because… _they were no longer attached to anything_. The realization had made his heart stop, momentarily. They weren't connected to the boy, and they hadn't been for a long time. Dumbledore's knowledge of enchantments was considerable; but in spite of his frantic, all-consuming dissection of the devices, in the end it was all he could do to determine that the connection had been severed sometime close to Arabella's death.

He was floored. The only thing that should have been able to sever the connection, after all, would have been Harry's death.

Two and a half years later, Dumbledore had nearly reached his wit's end. With Harry's disappearance, and the severing of his instruments, he'd nearly lost hope. But one thing had kept him going: the Hogwarts student book. Its enchantments were much older, and more powerful, than his own instruments had been. If Harry was alive at all, the book would know.

But maddeningly, the book worked in a specific fashion. It would only report on those living on their eleventh birthday, and at no other time. Nothing he could do could access the book's contents, not without potentially ruining the enchantments on the book. Knowing he would not be able to repair whatever damage he might accidentally do, he was forced to bide his time, and wait.

More than two years of terrified, frustrating waiting had taken its toll on him. More restless than he had been in his youth, he threw himself into whatever projects he could, furiously aiming his energy anywhere else. At night, and whenever there was nothing to be done, he turned to his cups; but eventually, Poppy's objections forced him to put them aside.

Informing Minerva and the staff of what had occurred was galling, but keeping it from them would be worse in the long run, he had known; still, telling them had been the hardest thing he could recall doing. Minerva's fury had been a sight to behold. He hadn't seen her so angry since the day her fiancé had been killed, murdered by a former Grindelwald supporter.

Naught but twenty-three then, she'd cast so many spells at the successful assassin that the overload had destroyed her wand. His body was unidentifiable; none of the spells could be broken, so powerful had her rage been. The rictus of fury on her face would be something he would never forget; the sobbing he heard from her quarters a few days later would be another regret that would never leave him. Regret that he hadn't seen the attack coming; regret that he couldn't stop attacker; and still more regret that he hadn't stopped _her_, hadn't prevented her anger from nearly destroying her.

That passion had been the reason he'd suggested teaching to her; partially as a way to put her sorrows to rest, partially to fill the void of the children she would now never have, and of course partially because of the phenomenal skill she'd displayed avenging her beloved. Armando had approved, of course, of Dumbledore's choice of replacement for Transfiguration professor, though he'd expressed some reservations about her teaching ability. Her Scottish temper, however, won his approval.

Since then, his staff had helped him in his search. None of them understood the urgency, save Severus and Minerva, beyond Harry's status as a hero, but that was enough to motivate them. But still, after two years, not even a single credible rumor had reached him.

It was a hard lesson, recognizing his own involvement in this particular failure, but the knowledge drove him to speak up when Dolores Umbridge proposed her bill to put employment restrictions on people with creature heritage. That day, he'd reminded his supporters why they supported him, and his enemies why they hated him; but neither really mattered. Neither had influenced his decision to speak that day, rather than save his energy for some of the bigger fights. What made him speak up that day was knowing what would likely happen if he didn't, and with it the sudden realization that he didn't want any more regrets keeping him awake at night.

It was no simple task, convincing the Wizengamot to reject the bill, and it cost him considerable political capital, but when it was finally put to a vote, nearly four-fifths of the chamber voted against it. It was a landslide victory; one that would keep discussion of any further such bills out of the chamber for years to come.

That night was the first time in many years that he slept well.

That was six months ago, on the 31st of January. Today, on the 30th of July, he stood before the book, waiting with baited breath. The clock approached midnight, but not a single sound reached him. He could not peel his eyes from the old tome, nor from the ancient quill and stack of envelopes nearby. His ears could discern nothing but his own breathing, and only barely that. He didn't feel the warmth of the nearby fire lighting the room, nor the discomfort of his feet, standing stock still as he had for more than an hour. The book had been made long before he was born, before Dippet had been born, in fact. The details of its construction had been lost to history, and despite his long curiosity about its function, he'd never spent much time studying it.

But tonight, he could think about, could focus on, nothing else.

His vision traced the leather-bound volume, noting the faint impressions of runes carved into the surface. Many of them were no longer visible to the unaided eye, but for someone as sensitive to magic as he, they shown as though they glowed. A faint scratching noise, emanating from within the book, told him that a new name had been added. A new magical child had been born. But he could not muster the curiosity to wonder to whom it had been born.

The clock, three floors away, began chiming. Once, twice, thrice… On and on it went, counting upwards, until finally it struck twelve, and went silent. The castle, so recently filled with noise, was again silent as the grave. And he still waited. Time passed, he didn't know how much, and nothing. _Nothing happened._

Not knowing how long he waited, he felt his heart break. 'The boy must have died those many years ago,' he thought. A single tear appeared, falling to his beard, as he slowly turned towards the door. Where he intended to go, whether it was to bed, or to leap from the tower, he wasn't sure. But just as his hand reached for the knob, a scratching sound penetrated his daze, and he turned. The quill was moving writing upon an envelope; the book was just closing ('When did it open? I didn't hear it'). And then the quill stopped.

It took every last bit of strength of will he possessed to make himself walk to the desk. To look upon the parchment; to see what was written there. The years threatened to overwhelm him, but he managed to raise his eyes.

And read these words:

_Harry Potter_

_Unknown_

_Unknown_

_Unknown__._

~~End chapter~~


	2. No really, what happened to him?

To worship the Sun (working title)

Chapter 2: No really, what happened to him?

Key: (you should know what speech and thoughts look like now)

'He's alive.'

Every second that had passed since he had left that empty house on Privet Drive, every moment since he checked his instruments, all hit him at once.

For an eternity, he stood stock-still; unmoving, barely breathing, unable to think or feel, with only one thought in his head. 'He's alive'. Eventually, with all the animation of a golem, he walked out of the room, carrying the envelope in his hands, reading the name again and again. Somehow he made it to his quarters. He would not remember speaking his password to the gargoyle, nor climbing the stairs, nor disrobing, nor even climbing into bed. When his head landed on the pillow, he was out like a candle, hands still clinging to the envelope. He slept as soundly as a stone, not even dreaming, hands still clutching the parchment.

When he awoke, for a moment he was terrified that it had been a dream. He was too frightened to open his eyes, and even the feel of parchment in his hands did not calm him, fearing that he had read a name that wasn't there.

Finally mustering his courage, his eyes opened, and gazed once more upon the name.

_Harry Potter_

_Unknown_

_Unknown_

_Unknown_

'He's alive.'

Though it was merely six o'clock, he rose, dressed, and walked to the Great Hall for breakfast. Where yesterday he had felt like a golem, today he could not feel the weight of his own body. By the time he reached the bottom steps, he felt a hundred years younger, the weight of a century of regrets coming off of him, even if only for a moment.

And when he sat at his chair, and the elves brought his porridge, he could not remember anything ever having tasted so sweet. It brought back long-buried memories of his mother, Kendra Dumbledore, and the breakfasts she would make for Aberforth and himself. Addressing an empty room, he quietly intoned the only thing that could express what he wanted to say, "Today will be a good day."

Truth be told, nothing had changed. He still didn't have Harry, nor did he know where Harry was. But Harry was alive, and under the circumstances it was almost more than he had hoped for. The look on Minerva's face, and Pomona's, and Filius's, and all of the other staff members were gratifying. With, of course, one exception. "Really, Severus, would it kill you to remember that young Harry has never met his father?"

And so it was with renewed vigor that the staff searched for rumors of Harry.

The door opened, breaking Albus out of his reverie, with the customs agent on the other side. "The Secretary will see you now."

The three entered the office. It was sparsely furnished, with a giant desk before a window, the Secretary obviously the man sitting behind it, several comfortable chairs, and a sofa facing a nearby fireplace. Several bookshelves, packed to bursting, lined the walls, filled with titles indicating variously books of law, history, and newspaper clippings. A large television sat upon a wooden table, opposite the desk. It was currently off. Where many bureaucrats had art or paintings on their walls, for vanity even if not for personal enjoyment, the Secretary had just a few: a framed copy of the American Constitution, of the Declaration of Independence, of the Magna Carta, and of one more document that Albus did not immediately recognize. It also had a painting of what turned out to be the signing of the Declaration.

'A patriotic man,' Albus thought, as he approached the desk. The agent preceded the visitors, stopping just before the desk.

"Sir, your one o'clock appointment has arrived."

The Secretary looked up, and gestured to the seats while waving away the agent. Albus took one, along with Amelia and Earnest. The agent saluted, and marched out of the office.

Secretary Curtis Adams was an older, graying man. Wearing a Muggle suit, sans coat, he did not have much of the appearance of a wizard, unlike his visitors; but the wand resting nearby gave away his magical heritage. An angular face gave away his German ancestry, his only non-Aryan features being his steely gray eyes. He withdrew a pair of reading glasses from his desk, and put them on with one hand as he pulled a file folder to him with the other. He extended a hand towards the ambassador. "Earnest, good to see you."

Swambeck shook his hand. "Good to see you, Curtis. With me for our business today are our chief legislator Albus Dumbledore, and our director of law enforcement, Amelia Bones." Both shook hands with the Secretary in turn.

His face returned to the file. "Alright, I understand that our business today concerns a… _displaced_ orphan, by the name of Harry Potter," he said, not looking up from the file.

Albus spoke. "Yes. We have been searching for him for some time, and we have only just discovered that he is living in the United States."

"Yes, that's in the report I received. It says that he has been missing for… 9 years, is that correct?"

"Err... Yes"

"And yet his disappearance went unnoticed for some time, nearly four years, is that also correct?"

Albus's face became pained. "Indeed."

Finally, Adams looked up from the report. One brow rose. "And how exactly did that happen? My report says _you_ were responsible for the boy's placement."

Albus's expression did not change. "I was. I had him placed with his relatives, under wards. I had a number of sensors tied to him, and a nearby agent charged with checking up on him."

Adams's other eyebrow rose. "Good security. How was it compromised?"

"That's quite a story, actually." Albus relayed what had occurred, up to the point of discovering Harry's continued life. "After that, we had little to go on, and that did not change for some time. Eventually, during what would have been his second year at Hogwarts, his disappearance finally became public.

"But even with the whole of Wizarding Britain looking for him, we found no clues. And it simply did not occur to anyone that he was out of the country."

The corner of Adams's mouth turned up slightly at that. "Sounds like quite a blind-spot your society had there."

"Indeed. It was in October of last year that the story finally went public. Two months ago, I happened to be in London, and I overheard two wizards conversing near the door, about a Muggle newspaper one of the men had seen."

_*Flashback* (AN: did not want to use this technique, but couldn't think of another way)_

"_I'm telling ya, there's something wrong with them Muggles!"_

"_Yeah, imagine a boy testifying against his parents!... Oh hey there, Headmaster Dumbledore!"_

_Albus had not been much interested in their conversation, but now he'd been pulled in. "Hello Adrian. What was that news story you were discussing?"_

"_Oh that. You tell 'im, Charlie. You're the one who saw it, looking fer that Muggle drink you like so much."_

_Albus noticed a bottle with a red label in the other man's hand. The man started defensively, "Oy, it was one of them Muggleborn students in my dorm who got me started on this. It's good stuff, this Coke."_

_Albus gestured in a placating manner. "Rest assured, I appreciate those who are interested in Muggle culture. Our society needs more of that. But about the story…?"_

"_Oh yeah, saw it on one o' their papers in the store. It said something about a boy testifying against his parents. Something about 'abandonment'."_

"_Really? Sounds quite horrid."_

"_Yeah, says that they used to take care o' his cousin, but they went overseas, and left the cousin there. Said that his father even changed their names after they got back so as they could get away with it. The mum, had an odd name, Pet-something, some kinda flower."_

_Albus felt a chill crawl up his spine. "Where was this store?"_

"_Ah, just down the block out there. Three doors down the way, sir."_

_Where a moment ago he was starting to again despair of ever finding the boy, this story grabbed his attention. It might have nothing to do with Harry, but if it did…_

_Ignoring the stares of passing Muggles, he hurried to the store, and found the paper. There, on the front page, showed an unmoving picture of a boy of fourteen, speaking to a Muggle police officer. Opening the paper to the proper page, two photos stared out at him, with the names Vernon and… __**Petunia**__ Darrows. The surname was different, but he remembered the woman. She shared only vague similarities with Lily, but Albus remembered her face._

_The story, however, filled him with fury._

*End flashback*

Amelia spoke for the first time. "I became involved after that discovery. That newspaper story was our first major clue. The boy, named Dudley, testified that his parents had taken himself and his young cousin to Chicago on a business trip for the firm his father worked for, a drill-maker named Grunnings. He went on to say that one of the nights they were there, his father took them out to an area of the city that had several abandoned industrial plants, and left the cousin there, driving back to the hotel they were staying at. Dudley admitted that he only barely remembered his cousin, but the airline records showed that the return ticket meant for his cousin was never used, and his parents had been receiving funds for the cousin's upkeep from the government.

"He did not remember his cousin's name, but upon their return, the father had arranged to have their names changed to Darrows, from Dursley."

Albus seethed at the memory, but continued where she had stopped. "Harry Potter's relatives were Vernon and Petunia Dursley, with the latter being his late mother's sister. They had a toddler named Dudley when Harry was given to their care. And they had lived in the correct house.

"I went to the police precinct where they were being held, just to be sure. And when I entered, and I beheld Petunia once more, her face turned ashen. She knew me, and that was all the confirmation I needed."

He paused, struggling to control himself. "I don't know why she did it, and what little I could extract from her did not even begin to resemble a justification. The only possibility I could gather was that she had hated her sister more than I ever suspected, that her husband hated anything he believed 'unnatural', and that leaving Harry had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, made after a few drinks."

Adams scowled, looking disgusted. "Sounds like a pair that needs a long stay in prison. Are you sure they were not bewitched?"

Albus nodded. "I made sure of that. The confirmation took some time, and if we were going to get him back from America, a sovereign nation, we needed proof of his ancestry. Amelia's department took over gathering the information."

She chimed in, "My department gathered the appropriate familial records, and everything we could find regarding how and when he'd been left behind in America. When we felt we had enough, we approached your office."

Albus went on. "At the time, the search was primarily in Amelia's hands. However, one of my staff had been in America over the spring term break, visiting a convention in Tennessee."

Adams glanced at the file. "Ah, Pomona Sprout, correct? Your… Herbology instructor."

"Yes. As it happens, on her last day, she stumbled upon a children's art competition…"

_*Flashback*_

"_It was very lifelike," she said, describing the winning entry, "One of the employees told me it was a sculpture of an Eastern diamondback rattlesnake, wrapped around a boot that had two holes bored into it, meant to look as though the snake had bitten someone's foot through it. As impressive as it was, I probably wouldn't have asked after the winner's name, except the boot hadn't been sculpted. It was a normal leather boot, and it had been Petrified magically to make it stiff."_

_Pomona's story wasn't all that interesting, but for one thing: she'd insisted that he hear it. "And?"_

_She gave him an amazed look. "Albus, the winner was __Harry Potter__, age 12."_

_*End flashback*_

"That explains the request that was sent to my office…" Adams responded, looking thoughtful.

Hope stirred in Albus's chest. "And? Was it him?"

Adams peered at him, before returning his gaze to the file before him. "My staff looked into that, and it seems that it may be the boy you are searching for. We contacted his legal guardians – "

"Guardians?" Albus was surprised.

"Really, Albus, the boy has been living in this country for nearly ten years. What four-year-old could survive without guardians?" Amelia chided, inwardly pleased that the boy had been found.

The corner of Adams's mouth turned up for just a moment. "Quite. As I was saying, we've contacted the boy's guardians, and they agreed to allow us to show you a current photograph. The boy has a scar that seems to match the one your paperwork mentioned, and we asked for a photo that showed both his face and scar clearly." He plucked a photo from the file folder, reaching it out to Albus. "Is this him?"

With trembling hands, Albus took the photo. It took a moment for his vision to clear, but when it did… "The spitting image of a teenage James Potter," was the only thing he could say. His gaze zeroed in on the plainly visible scar. The lightning bolt shape struck a chord in his memories.

A long moment passed, and he handed the photo to Amelia, who then passed it onto Earnest. "Yes, that's him. But for his eyes he could not look more similar to his father."

Adams nodded. "That's what I thought too, of the photos of the parents you sent. So, it seems the boy has been found." His fingers entwined, raising them up in front of his face, resting his elbows on the table, looking contemplative. "Out of the frying pan, into the fire, it seems."

_That_ remark startled all three of the British visitors. "What? What's the problem?" blurted the Ambassador.

"Firstly, the boy has legal guardians. We've had exactly zero reason to complain about either the guardians or the family the boy occasionally stays with; and, given the guardians' status, it would take quite a serious complaint for us to consider breaking their guardianship.

"And secondly, and more importantly, while the boy's guardians have expressed a willingness to allow the boy to attend his parent's alma mater, there is another issue; the boy and his guardians both would have certain… _reservations_ about their legal status in Britain."

All three of them were confused. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand. Why would Harry's legal status be a problem?" The circumspect way in which the Secretary was speaking was starting to worry Albus.

"I'm afraid that some of the details will have to wait until both guardians have arrived; I invited them here to discuss this issue with you. I expect they will be arriving shortly.

"But I can tell you that one of the issues is that both guardians are technically Muggles. One of them is pure Muggle, going back as far as we can trace, and the other we suspect to be a third-generation Squib. As far as we have been able to ascertain, the boy is very fond of both of them, and they have been as responsible regarding his care as any blood parent. Given the legal statuses of Muggles and Squibs in Britain, they are both concerned about some British purebloods trying to shut them out of Harry's life; as am I."

Albus wished he could reassure the Secretary that such a thing couldn't happen, but he most certainly could see Lucius Malfoy, Cornelius, and at least a half-dozen other families calling for exactly that; especially if neither guardian was a relation of Harry. But it was Amelia who restored his hopes.

"I think we can come to an arrangement about that, Mister Adams. As director of law enforcement, there are a number of means we could potentially use to secure their status regarding Harry, such as a surrogate magical guardian. It wouldn't be a perfect solution, but with your backing, and the prevalence of American trade with our society, it would be made into a very difficult target for them to assault."

Adams 'hmm'ed. "Possibly. It helps that one of the guardians is a Federal law enforcement officer as well."

A knock sounded at the door. When Adams depressed a button on his desk, Agent Jackson poked his head in. "Sir, the Officer you requested is here."

Adams nodded. "Show him in."

Whomever Albus had been expecting, the man who walked in was _not_ him. Dark skin ('Nearly black, in fact'), close cropped hair, dark sunglasses that hugged his face, and a black leather duster coat that stretched nearly to the ankles of his black military boots. In fact, the only part of his ensemble that _wasn't_ black was the coppery badge that was just visible, pinned to the inside of his coat.

What could be seen of his face revealed no obvious expression, and the sunglasses meant that Albus was unable to even get a passive scan of his thoughts. Staring, the first thought that Albus had about him was, 'No one would ever spot this man at night.'

The black man strode to the Secretary, removing the glasses to reveal _unusually_ light brown eyes, a stark contrast to his skin and ensemble. He shook hands with Adams, intoning in a deep voice, "Good to see you again, sir."

Adams returned the handshake firmly. "And you." He turned to their British visitors. "May I introduce Officer Eric Brooks, US Marshal and guardian to Harry James Potter, age 12."

Officer Brooks did not offer his hand, instead pulling a chair off to the side of Adams's desk and sitting in it. His stoic face gave away little, and Albus was still unable to gain any insight through Legilimency.

Adams gave him a disapproving look, but returned to the trio. "Officer Brooks is one of our best. Highly respected, and highly decorated. He leads one of our Special Operations teams."

Folding his hands again, he inquired, "How much do you know about the history of magical society in America?"

Albus admitted, "Not much. I've not dealt with your country much in my career."

Adams nodded. "Going back to the 17th century, when the continent was still being settled by enterprising explorers, it was seen as a dumping ground by many magical societies. A place to send all of those that they didn't want around, but didn't necessarily want to kill. The list was quite varied: pureblood Squibs, bastard offspring, people with curses, Muggleborns, people with creature heritage like werewolves and vampires…

"Add in those mages in the native Indian tribes, and we had probably the most diverse magical community on Earth. And as people are wont to do, they tended to form enclaves with those similar to themselves. It was a recipe for disaster, really, because many of those groups don't mix well. That changed with the Revolution though.

"One of the primary Revolutionary ideas for ensuring good government was federalism; of which separation of powers was a significant part. If you aren't familiar, the idea of separation of powers was to spread out political power as widely, and thinly, as possible, so as to prevent its centralization. The Founders believed that centralization was the principle source of autocratic tyranny, and that it would bring about tyranny no matter how beneficent and kind the ruler. At the same time a reasonably strong government was necessary, so as to prevent unlimited democracy, or mob rule.

"Those Founders who had magical heritage approached the various enclaves with this idea, and managed to sell them on it. It grew out of the same vein that freedom of religion did: No one really wanted to give up their state churches, but none of them were popular enough to suppress the others, so they had to share power. By bringing the magical enclaves into the same kind of arrangement, it could secure good social interaction amongst them, and thus reduce and eventually break down barriers between them, but at the same time none could use the law to oppress the others. And more importantly, at least as far as the future of the nation was concerned, it would tie them to the nation's fate; patriotism is a powerful force for uniting people in times of crisis, after all. It was viewed, and sold, as a safe arrangement for all involved.

"Some enclaves joined sooner, some later, but by the time Andrew Jackson, our first magical president, was elected, nearly all of the magical enclaves had signed on. The biggest remaining group was the Comanche Indians, and that issue wouldn't be solved until nearly the end of the 19th century. It was under Jackson that my office was created, as per the terms of the charter."

He paused for a moment. "One of the primary effects of this kind of society is that it made it impossible to deny most any sentient being legal rights. So where Britain and most of Europe do not recognize equal legal status of say, vampires, we do. What little state-level racial discrimination there was ended with the 14th Amendment in 1868. That's not to say," he hastily added, "That _private_ racism doesn't occur, but at least in the magical society it's never been a significant issue."

Amelia chuckled. When Adams stared at her, she explained, "I was just picturing Dolores's face ("Our Minister's Undersecretary," Earnest explained) at someone proposing recognizing the rights of vampires."

Albus chuckled as well. It felt good to laugh, he realized. He'd had precious little to laugh about in recent years. "Yes, I imagine she would be quite put out, to say the least."

Adams nodded. "Well, one of the other major effects is upon my office. You see, while my office is often analogized to your Minister's, it's really not that similar. Your Minister, if I understand correctly, _reports_ to the Prime Minister of Britain, but does not _answer_ to him, correct?" Earnest nodded. "I, however, answer to the President.

"Part of the original federal arrangement for the magicals in our society was that they would be expected to follow Muggle law, wherever applicable. Additional laws specifically for them would be added on a jurisdictional basis, by the magical representatives elected to the local, state, or federal Legislatures. That's what that extra document on the wall there is," he said, pointing, "A copy of the original Charter for Magical Peoples in the United States of America. It's a single page only, because it is simply added on to rest of the Constitution."

"Wait," Amelia interjected, "You answer to the President?" she wondered incredulously.

"Yes. I am a member of the Presidential Cabinet, just like any other."

"But… what if the President is a Muggle?"

"Part of the charter covers that. If the sitting President has magical heritage, it is assumed that he has sufficient knowledge to choose a proper Secretary of Magic. If he doesn't, the previous administration's Secretary can be held over for his first term, on the proviso that he is re-confirmed by the magical members of the Senate. This is often what Muggle presidents do. Otherwise, my position is subject to a public vote, by the magical members of the State legislatures. This is also done if the sitting Muggle president is re-elected.

"In my case, former President Reagan had at least one magical relative in the person of his uncle. That was sufficient background for him to possess legal knowledge of the magical world, and so he was able to make an informed choice. Former President Bush does not come from a magical background, and so he decided to keep me on. Current President Clinton is not very fond of me at all, but he does not come from a magical background, and since I was already a holdover my position was put to a vote as the Constitution requires. The States chose to retain me." He chuckled. "Modern liberalism, with all its welfare-statism and federal overreaching, finds few admirers indeed in our society, and it was quite annoying to him that he was unable to refuse a conservative officer in his Cabinet.

"The Vice President and the Secretaries of Defense, State, and the Treasury must be informed of my existence, and of our society, in order to do their jobs. Generally, the other Cabinet members are not informed. The fact that they must be informed, however, doesn't mean that they have any duties vis a vis magical society. Ours is a culture that is very self-sufficient, and requires little input from the Federal government. My job consists primarily of foreign affairs, of assisting the Department of Defense and our military with logistical problems regarding its magical officers, and of dealing with our internal magical problems."

Frowning, Albus spoke up. "This is all quite fascinating, really, but what does this have to do with Harry?"

Finally, Brooks decided to speak up. "It has to do with me."

Adams nodded. "Indeed. I bring this up partially because you need to have some understanding of the culture that Harry has been brought up in if you want him to be able to adjust to your school and your country. But I also bring it up because some of these issues have been central to his home life, and to his guardians." He gestured to Brooks. "Officer Brooks is a member of our Special Tasks Force, and he and his team are assigned to controlling our vampire problem here in the States."

Amelia leaned forward. "I thought you said that vampires are citizens?"

Adams agreed. "They are able to become citizens, provided that they respect the law. But not all of them are willing to do that, and... there is another problem.

"You see, vampirism is caused by a viral infection. We've dubbed the virus _nocturna_, and one of the most interesting things about it is that magicals and Muggles are differently affected by infection.

"The virus instills into infectees the bloodthirst for which vampires are so famous; a side effect of the beneficial alterations of the virus is that the vampire's body can no longer produce its own hemoglobin without help, and this help comes in the form of the blood of others. In addition, the infectees develop a considerably powerful allergy to garlic, and a positively lethal tendency to undergo rapid flesh decay when in contact with metallic silver. This has something to do with how the silver reacts with certain chemicals in the vampire's altered cell membranes; I'm afraid I'm not quite up on the biological details.

"These things occur in almost exactly the same fashion no matter the magical status of the infectee. But the psychological changes are quite different. Magical vampires adapt very well to the changes, and the virus does not noticeably change their personality on its own. Part of this may simply be that magicals already know that vampires exist, but we've been able to determine that their own magic blunts some of the psychological effects that _nocturna_ has on Muggles.

"In Muggles, the virus has a strong tendency to extract long-dormant predatory instincts in the infectees. Combined with the sudden bloodthirst, this tends to make many of them orders of magnitude more violent than they used to be. They do not tend to lose their ability to be rational, _per se_, but what does happen is that their recognition of moral values tends to degrade in favor of whatever will best feed their new instincts and thirst. Even moral values that they recognized and followed prior to infection will degrade. Vampires can and do have children, and the psychological effects of _nocturna_ are blunted somewhat in born, or pureblood to use their terminology, vampires; but they are still monsters at their core.

"Vampires can and do consume regular food, but blood is an absolute necessity. Our magical vampire enclaves are generally peaceful, trading with nearby communities for their source of human blood. And for most of our history, there have been few nonmagical vampires in the US. Those that were created didn't tend to live long; they were either exposed and destroyed, or else didn't understand the lethality of sunlight and died within a day of being infected. This changed around the turn of the 20th century.

"In 1912, a vampire, whose name has been lost to us, joined a Communist group in New York City. Until him, the group had no magical members. He became enthralled by the ideas of Marx and Engels, and decided that a great way," Albus blinked at the sarcastic tone, "to aid in the coming Marxist revolution was to create an army of vampires. His first targets were the other members of the Communist group.

"Most of them were killed rapidly after being infected, mostly run-ins with the sun, but a few survived. The magical did not. Somehow they made contact with Muggle vampire groups outside of the US, and began funneling them in through Canada and Mexico. The new arrivals were savvy, and took advantage of the naïve belief of the Communists that they were coming to aid their Revolution. The truth, however, is that they wanted to get a foothold here, because recent expansions in their numbers in Europe had made it more difficult to conceal themselves, and they needed a new place to send their surplus members. And it was much easier to establish themselves here when they had someone to lay the groundwork. After building several strongholds for the foreign vampires, the Communist group was killed to a man.

"Whether they didn't know about the magical community, or were deliberately avoiding its notice, we still aren't sure. But what we do know is that they were so successful in concealing themselves that we didn't notice them until about twenty years ago.

"In the latter part of the 1960s and early 70s, a recently turned vampire named Deacon Frost started what has become the vampire nationalist movement. He believes that vampires should rule humans the way that humans "rule" cattle, and for the same reason. The fact that humans can and do effectively fight back doesn't matter to him, best we can tell.

"He caused a lot of friction with the vampire establishment, who preferred… _discretion_. They were well aware of the fury that humans could bring down upon them if their existence were exposed. But Frost either didn't know or didn't care. In order to attract new followers to his cause, he started up a series of nightclubs, where the recently turned vampires would bring "donors" to be fed upon and/or turned. A charismatic man, he built a cult of personality within his following, and many of them believe him to be a god. They even started calling him _La Magra_, the Blood God, after an ancient vampire legend.

"Nine years ago, he pulled off a successful coup against the House of Dragonetti, the main vampire establishment in the Northeast. By this time, we had been trying to get a handle on this new threat for quite a while. But we ran into a number of problems.

"You see, America has an _unusually_ large number of Squibs. Squibs, as you know, _are_ magical, it's just that they are unable to channel enough mana at any one time to successfully cast spells. This handicap, however, was and is considered an embarrassment to pureblood magical families around the globe. So, many of them sent their offspring here. Our population is nearly 35% Squib, according to the last census. _Nocturna_ infectees who aren't magical therefore have regular opportunities to feed on Squibs.

"This is a problem, because feeding upon Squibs confers some magical ability to the vampire. Not anything like spell-casting: it makes them more resistance to magical spells. Of any kind. Including tracking spells. It takes a significant number of Squibs to produce a noticeable effect; however, non-magical vampires generally have to feed every two to three days. Frost's cult supplements their "donors" with blood banks and with animal blood, in order to reduce their chances of early detection, but that's still quite a bit of blood."

He poured himself another drink, and drained it. "At the time, Officer Brooks here was an independent vampire hunter, one of the most successful in American history. He was partnered with an older widower by the name of Abraham Whistler, Harry's other guardian. Although Whistler was once a capable hunter in his own right, because of his advanced age and poor health he is now also in the employ of the Federal Marshals, but as an equipment contractor. It was Mister Whistler's long research that provided us with much of the information we now have, and he is also one of our go-betweens with the Department of Justice."

Amelia's brow narrowed. "Equipment contractor?"

Adams cleared his throat. "Yes. You see, my predecessor was a holdover from the Nixon administration. He concentrated primarily on repelling the infiltration attempts of the KGB's magical agents: a task for which he was admirably skilled. As an aside," his gaze hardened for a moment, "don't ever call an American wizard a socialist, or any variation thereof. That is, unless you _want_ him to challenge you to a duel. American magical society has a long cultural memory, and some of our citizens remember the Founding; it's hard for us to forget that there are few ideologies so thoroughly antithetical to our system as socialism."

He shook his head, and returned to his explanation, "Unfortunately, my predecessor was also somewhat dismissive of nonmagical weapons. A very odd thing, considering that he was a former OSS officer and served as General Bradley's magical aide in the war against Germany under Hitler and Grindelwald. In the case of the KGB, this was not a big problem: magical weapons were the cheapest thing for the KGB to equip their agents with, so he was well-equipped to fight them. But against the vampire problem, his approach left a lot to be desired.

"That was one of the reasons we were so incapable of so much as _slowing_ the spread of Frost's cult, much less halting or reversing it." He sighed. "Those were frustrating years, cleaning up after attacks, wiping memories, and only moderate success in combat missions. We lost a number of good people. Enter Brooks and Whistler, however, and we've since managed to turn the tide."

"Wait," Albus interrupted, "Nine years ago? That was when Harry arrived in America!"

Adams nodded. "Yes. I was just getting to that – "

Amelia, who had gone stone-faced when she made the same connection, spoke up. "Secretary Adams," she said in a too-calm voice, "Are you trying to tell us that Harry Potter is a vampire?"

The blood drained from Albus's face, and for only the fifth time in his long life, he felt his heart stop.

Adams gave her a long look, and sighed again. "Yes, that's what I'm trying to say. It is my sad duty to inform you that, at age 4, Harry Potter joined the ranks of the _hominus nocturna_."

~~End Chapter~~

AN: Sorry for the wait. Loads of homework to do. Some of you saw this coming, some of you probably didn't. Well, maybe some of you are finally starting to get the title of my story, at least.

Didn't notice this at first, but I had the Presidential timeline wrong. This scene takes place in June of 93, with Clinton sitting POTUS, and Bush left in 92. Fixed and added a little further scene.

For those who don't like libertarian (I'm an Objectivist, and we don't like libertarians much, but on philosophical issues, not political ones) political theory, don't read my story. Seriously. My story is a realistic take on what a society would look like in the modern era if roughly 1 in 30 people had been old enough to remember the _Andrew Jackson_ administration, and 1 in 25 were old enough to have heard the Gettysburg Address. To say they would be opposed to the modern welfare state and to the dramatic 20th century expansion of the federal government would be to say that _hell_ was uncomfortably warm. To say that Lincoln himself would _despise_ Barack Obama and his politics, to say nothing of the Founders like Washington and Jefferson… There's not a good metaphor to describe it. I would say they would see him as being worse than King George.


	3. How the HELL did that happen!

To worship the Sun (working title)

Chapter 3: He's a what now?

Key: (you should know what speech and thoughts look like now)

Albus's body sagged in his chair. The weight that had come off him when the Secretary told him Harry had been found returned a hundred-fold. As far as he was concerned, Harry might as well have been dead after all. So it was with no small amount of surprise, and with an incredulous expression, that Albus reacted to Adam's next statement.

"According to all reports, Harry has adjusted very well to his new life as a vampire."

Amelia's brow rose up into her hairline. "Adjusted?"

"Indeed. As you might recall, I _did_ mention that magical vampires psychologically adjust better to the transformation than do Muggles. Young Harry was apparently no exception. Currently, he is staying with a family in in a mining town in West Virginia while he attends school. A number of non-vampires live in the town, and blood is sold to local vampires openly. A number of vampires work at the town's copper mine; and copper has sufficient industrial value that it more than pays for their blood needs."

The idea of genuinely peaceful vampires was so alien to Albus that his mind did not fully register anything Adams said. The only response he could give, in a weak voice, was, "How did Harry…?"

Adams gave him a sympathetic look, and turned again to Brooks. "Officer Brooks, if you would…?"

The dark man leaned forward. "Chicago was a hotbed of vampire activity in the early 80s. Still is, but not like it used to be. Whistler and I killed every vampire we could find, but we weren't getting them fast enough. We'd been working in Detroit since we found each other, but the only vampires there were part of Frost's cult cells. Every time we killed one, or even a whole cell, they'd be replaced within the month.

"Chicago wasn't his base of operations, we knew, but it was one of the bigger ports of call in the blood trafficking business for vampires. Hurting him there would have much bigger effects than just hitting recruiting cells. In Detroit, we dusted maybe a hundred vampires a year. We beat that only a month in once we got to Chicago. Wasn't too long after we arrived in '81, though, that Whistler got a bad leg injury; so he was out of commission for a while. A year later, his leg had mostly healed, but lung cancer set in, so I was on my own for good. He turned to making and maintaining my weapons full-time at that point."

Swambeck interrupted. "You fought _alone_? Against all those vampires?"

Brooks nodded. "Vampires are strong, especially right after feeding: turned vampires who've just fed are nearly as strong as a transformed werewolf from what I've heard, but they're ten times as agile. They're hard to kill, too, since their flesh is tougher than normal and their regenerative ability is potent enough to regrow whole limbs in only a few days. But if you know what you're doing, and you have the right training and equipment, it can be done. Even against big numbers, cause vampires react to fear just like humans do, and I had a reputation by then.

"'Course, it helps to have a few 'gifts' of your own." He smiled, showing his teeth for the first time and revealing his… _overdeveloped_ eyeteeth.

In an instant, Amelia had shot to her feet and drawn her wand, aimed directly at his face. After years in the field fighting Death Eaters, she was a fast draw, but Brooks was faster. She vaguely recognized the Muggle firearm the now-exposed vampire had pointed at her face, but she dared not draw her eyes from his.

Adams was on his feet, wand in hand, and shouting, "Officer Brooks, stand down _now_!" The black man reluctantly withdrew his weapon, replacing it in a holster concealed beneath his left arm, and sat down again. The Secretary turned to Amelia, who had not withdrawn her wand. "Please, Madame Bones, Officer Brooks likes to play his jokes, but he is not a danger to you."

Amelia slowly withdrew her wand, but kept it in hand, and did not return to her seat. Her gaze left the Officer, however, and found the nearby window, sunlight pouring in, some of it hitting the black man. One eyebrow rose, and she relaxed slightly. "A joke you say?" she muttered, regaining her seat.

Adams shook his head. "Not that. Officer Brooks is very much a vampire," all three British visitors' gazes shot to the window, "He just likes to scare people who don't already know." He gestured to the window. "Brooks is a unique breed of vampire, and is quite immune to most of the vampire's natural weaknesses, such as sunlight. Rest assured, while Officer Brooks _does_ drink blood on occasion, he does not take blood involuntarily, and hasn't since he was very young indeed. You are quite safe, unless you threaten him of course."

The three of them gaped for a moment, prompting Brooks to chuckle. Adams sighed. "Please continue, Officer Brooks."

Still chuckling, Brooks went on. "I spent a good portion of the first year just scouting. Getting to know where they hid and where they gathered. It was in the summer of '82 that I really started dusting them. I hit them hard, destroying as much of their blood supply line as I could in some places, planting audio bugs and stealing computer data and documents at other places so that Whistler could listen in and try to trace their networks. After a good hit, we'd lay low for a while. Whistler knew of another hunter group, but they were based out of the Mojave, and mostly hit California. They wouldn't be able to help us if we got found out, so we had to be careful.

Suddenly he no longer looked so mirthful. "Trouble was, hitting their supply line upped the number of random attacks. We didn't like it, since we were trying to prevent it from spilling onto the streets, but making cracks in the cult was really our only option. Frost went to a lot of trouble carrying on the old way of keeping the humans out of the way until he was ready for his takeover, which consisted of bribery, threats, and murder of anyone who could get the word out. Police, judges, district attorneys, reporters, politicians… We were on our own, as far as we knew, and even the so-called authorities and the media were on the other side. Collateral damage is a dirty word for a lot of reasons, but in our case, we didn't have a lot of options. Innocent people were going to die either way, so the best thing to do was to do as much damage with each hit as we could.

"I found Harry while on a patrol in August of '84.

"It was right after a major hit. We'd held off for nearly three months, spying in on them but not hitting anything. They were watching for us, leaving several easy targets as traps to see if they could catch me, or at least get a lead on me. It took us a while to get this," he said with a thoughtful look, "but Frost never tolerated failure well. Most of the time it meant a serious beating, one that would take even a vamp a few days to recover from, but sometimes it meant execution. Since we were hitting them so hard, a lot of them knew that reporting the hits might get them killed. So a lot of them started fabricating reports for him, or even not sending reports altogether. From their end it made sense, I suppose, but it meant that Frost didn't have a clear picture of what we were doing in Chicago, and that was so much of an advantage that we did whatever we could to encourage it.

"Then a big shipment came in, close to a hundred gallons of medical grade blood ("The medical preservatives ruin the taste, but it still does the trick," he explained), on a ship from New York. It was a tempting target, but they went so far out of their way to keep it secret that they must have convinced themselves that we really didn't know it was coming in. Dusted the twenty guards, and didn't even bother getting on the ship. Just stuck a few pounds of Semtex H to the side of the ship, right next to the cargo hold where the blood was, and put an audio bug near the gangplank so I would know when the transfer group arrived.

"I got almost a mile away before I heard their voices; then I blew the charges. The police were all over it the next day, and it was all over the news, but with no evidence and no leads beyond the fact that Semtex was used, we were in the clear.

"The following night I went out on patrol. I did this following a blood bank hit, because some of them would get desperate and be out looking for a random victim. Came across one outside an abandoned factory, chowing down on some kid."

His gaze hardened. "I put a bullet in his head before he knew that I was there, and then I checked on the kid. Near as I could tell, the suckhead had only had him for a minute or so before I took the shot, 'cause there's no way a kid that young could have survived more than a minute of that. But he was losing blood fast, and dying too."

A long silence followed. "I thought about putting him out of his misery. I figured that if he lived, he would probably turn, and I'd have to finish him off anyway. But when I drew my gun on him, his eyes opened for a second, and he looked at me… I'd lived through the riots of the 70s; I'd seen a lot of bad things happen to people; I'd seen what people look like when they lose all hope, and start welcoming death. Seeing a four-year-old give me a look like that was more than I could take."

More silence. "I put my gun away. I had some bandages on me, and I plugged his wound as best I could. I found him not far from the factory we were camped out in, so I managed to get him back to Whistler in time.

"…Whistler didn't think he was going to make it either."

Another knock at the door startled everyone except Brooks, who looked as though he'd been expecting it. Jackson stuck his head in again. "Sir, Agent Whistler is here."

Adams responded, "Send him in; he's late."

Into the room walked the old Muggle, and Albus Dumbledore got a good look at Abraham Whistler for the first time. Old and grizzled was a good description for the man, who reminded him faintly of Alastor. He had tanned skin, white hair to his shoulders, deep lines on his face, and a Muggle rifle across his back.

The old man nodded to Brooks, who returned the nod. No words passed between them. He then addressed Adams. "Okay, I'm here. So let's talk." He did not greet any of the visitors either, and chose a seat next to Brooks, removing his rifle and standing it against his knee.

Adams shot him a disapproving look, but like Brooks the old man ignored it. Adams returned his attention to his visitors. "Agent Abraham Whistler, as I mentioned. Whistler," he turned back to the old man for a moment, "you know Ambassador Swambeck, but these are British law enforcement director Amelia Bones, and chief legislator Albus Dumbledore. As my message indicated, they have been searching for young Harry for some time. We've managed to confirm that your young charge _is_ the boy in question, and Officer Brooks was appraising them of the circumstances surrounding Harry's… _infection_."

Whistler looked pensive. He turned to his longtime partner. "Blade, how far'd you get?"

"When I brought Harry to the warehouse."

"Blade?" now Amelia was confused.

"Officer Brooks was known by that name to the vampires he hunted; he was also known as 'the Daywalker'. According to the reports I've been given, the name was chosen to divert vampire attempts to find out information on his background; apparently these two managed to convince them that it _was_ his name," Adams explained.

Whistler began, "Blade don't like talking too much, so I'll take over from here.

"When Blade brought him in, I was ready to scold him. It was hard enough managing the two of us; bringing home strays like that would only make our problems worse. But he gave me this look, and I figured, 'What the hell'. So I looked at the kids face…

"You gotta understand, I had me a family once. Wife, two daughters. Beautiful, all three of 'em. Married the wife a year after the war; I wasn't old enough to fight, but my old man did. I went to work in a machine shop making… whatever was needed. Made tools, repaired machines, even made weapons. As the war drug on," he explained, "there was some talk about the Germans or the Japs end-running around our boys and sending an invasion force to the mainland. We made a lot of guns and ammo in our off time, just in case.

"My eldest was born a year later, and my second daughter when the first was four.

"In '62, a drifter came callin' to our house while I was at work; a vampire. When I got home, he blindsided me, beat the shit outta me, and then tied me up. Made me watch when he brought them in." He paused, clearly not wanting to remember what the vampire had done to his family. "He tried to make me decide which order they'd die in. I… couldn't save them, but that vampire was a pile of dust when I was done with him."

He paused a long while. Albus had seen and heard similar tales from survivors of Death Eater attacks, and understood the pain that such memories could bring; though he did wonder why the old Muggle brought it up. Amelia herself had been a victim of such a Death Eater attack; she'd managed to overpower them, and kill them, after her brothers had been killed. Her eyes welled up for a moment; that had been what drove her to become an Auror, war or no. He went on, "So when Blade brings this little boy in, and I get a good look at his face… He coulda been my grandson. He was the right age; my youngest woulda been married with kids by then.

"I knew that everythin' I'd ever learned about vampires was tellin' me to put him down, out of his misery, and just bury him proper. But all I could think about was how much his face reminded me of my daughter's.

"Blade had plugged the holes okay, but I did 'em one better. Boy was hypovolemic ('Bleeding to death,' Adams explained), and he'd already gone into shock from the blood loss. Transfusion was the only way to go, but I didn't want to take a chance o' giving him my cancer, nor a' catching _nocturna_ from 'im. Besides, I had the wrong blood type. But Blade was type 'O', so we rigged up a transfusion with him.

"Gave him about three pints worth. Blade's a big guy, he could spare it, and he'd be down for a few days anyway, layin' low after the hit. Anyway, any less and I didn't think the boy would make it. After the transfusion, I gave a shot of _allium sativum_, garlic, to try to counteract the virus. It's pretty crude, but the hunter who'd taught me had used it before, and it'd worked. I didn't know if the boy would survive it, but the only other option was just to let him turn. And then have to kill him.

"Wrapped him up in blankets, and put him on a saline IV. After that, there wasn't much else we could do, so we sat in to wait. I had maintenance waitin', but I couldn't make myself move.

"Musta dozed off, cause around midnight I woke up. Wasn't sure what had woken me, 'til I looked over at the boy. Took me a moment to realize he wasn't breathin'." Another long pause. "Was about to go find a place to dig a grave when his eyes opened.

"I drew my gun, but he didn't move. His eyes… they were _glowin_'. Could see 'em even in the dark, halfway across the room. After a moment, I could see some… red mist thing hoverin' over him. Now, I'd seen people turn before, but this was all new to me. Never saw nothin' like it, before or since.

"The mist started… _pulsing_. Like a heartbeat. And then I saw his belly start movin', start _breathin'_ again. Deep breaths he took too, over and over, breathin' in some of the mist every time. I couldn't move, and I don't think there was much I could have done even if I could. But eventually all of the mist was gone, and there was this flash of red light like a flare."

Swambeck looked amazed. "That must have been some kind of accidental magic," he mused.

Whistler nodded. "Didn't know nothin' about hocus pocus then, but it turns out that it was some o' that and some kind of blood magic too. But I'm getting' to that.

"When it was over, I managed to make myself check on him. He was breathin', his pulse was low but not dangerous, and he was warmer than he had been when I wrapped him up. Or maybe he wasn't, but it seemed like it. Seein' me check on him, Blade took to the roof, checkin' to see if anyone had seen the lights. That was the first time I noticed his scar; wouldn't have caught it, except it was leakin' this black fluid."

He leaned over and reached for the last glass on the Secretary's desk; Adams held out the decanter and poured him some whiskey.

He drained the glass, and Adams refilled it. Whistler took a sip, coughed, and continued. "That was Tuesday night. Boy woke up Thursday morning. Terrified outta his mind, he was, until he saw Blade. From what I gathered, he only vaguely remembered being attacked, but he _did_ recall Blade dusting the vamp. Far as he was concerned, that made Blade his hero."

Amelia smiled slightly at the thought. She asked, "Did you know then that he was a vampire?"

Whistler shook his head. "We put him in a darker area of the warehouse, away from the windows. I met Blade when he was thirteen, an' in spite of his thirst I managed to make a man outta him. I'd hoped I might be able to do the same for this boy.

"I told the kid he'd been attacked by a bad man, and that we'd help him find his parents as soon as he had recovered from the attack. Kid got this look on his face, like he had no idea why I would offer, seein' as his 'freak' parents were dead; he told us his 'Unca Vernon' had said he was a terrible freak, and had left him there in the night so that he wouldn't infect Dudley with his 'freakishness'. He said he was sorry for being a freak, and he'd spend all his time cleaning our big 'house' if we'd just let him stay and give him a little food. He said he tried his hardest to be good, and he'd do his best if we let him."

Albus felt his partially mended heart break once more. He'd known from his interrogation of Petunia that the boy hadn't been well-treated, but this was more than he'd expected. Amelia's face became murderous, and she shot a dark look at Albus. Whistler seemed to ignore them, and kept on.

"Gave the boy some breakfast. Always simple meals with us; had to spend whatever cash we got on materials for weapons. Silver wasn't cheap then, still isn't, and we couldn't always recover all of it. When I gave him the food, he looked at me like I'd grown a second head. Couldn't make heads or tails o' why I'd give him food when he hadn't done any cleaning yet.

"After I got 'im to eat it, I let a little sunlight into the room, angled away from him. Vampires' eyes are more sensitive to sunlight than ours, and under the right circumstances it can even burn their retinas. I figured that a little burn wouldn't hurt 'im, so I let a tiny bit scatter in his direction with a shiny wrench, and got his attention. He squinted, and said the light was too bright, but he didn't sound like he was in pain. His bite was mostly healed by now, and it wasn't scarring. That's usually a bad sign; it means the virus took. But it turned out that something in that magic burst, and that blood spell, and Blade's blood, did some kind of mixin' when the boy was dyin'."

He took another sip of the liquor. "Didn't know 'bout magic yet, but I knew something weird had happened. I figured it had somethin' to do with Blade only bein' part-vampire."

He gave Amelia and Albus a hard look. "Who's this 'Uncle Vernon'?"

Amelia held his gaze. "Vernon Dursley, Harry's uncle by marriage. Husband to Petunia Evans Dursley, sister to Lily Evans Potter, Harry's mother. They are, at this moment, sitting in prison cells; they've been convicted of multiple counts of child abuse and neglect, one count of abandonment, and the court recognized the circumstances of their abandonment of Harry as attempted murder, so they were convicted of that as well. As of yet, nonmagical Britain is not aware of Harry's continued survival, but even given the nature of their crimes, without a body, a conviction for murder was not possible. As it stands, they were both sentenced to life. Their son, the 'Dudley' that Harry's uncle mentioned, is living with his Aunt in Majorca."

Whistler sighed; it came out like a growl. "Shame you Brits don't execute people no more. Like to see Ol' Sparky get a chance at them ("In the United States, Muggles are sometimes executed via electrical shock," explained Adams, "The mechanism is referred to as 'the electric chair', or as 'Old Sparky')."

Swambeck nodded. "I can certainly agree, especially for a case like this. But we really need to move on. Is there any more pertinent information, or can we go meet the boy now?"

Adams gestured to Brooks. "Officer, would you wrap this discussion up? I do need to brief the President later this evening."

Brooks nodded. "Harry was okay with being a vampire; really, it took longer to break him of the idea that he had to work like a slave in order to be fed (Albus winced). After we'd had him close to three years, around what turned out to be his seventh birthday, we got an admittance letter from Salem Magic Academy. We got a visit a day later, after some administrator couldn't find out who his parents were. Quite a surprise, someone knocking on your door when you're hiding out in an abandoned industrial park in Chicago.

"That was how we got into contact with the Secretary," he gestured with his head at Adams, "When he found out who we were, he wanted us for the vampire control division. We, on the other hand, just wanted some way of doing right by the boy. We didn't have enough money to afford tuition, but it turns out that federal officers, in the magical divisions, receive tuition for their children as part of their benefits package; so Whistler and I got the support we needed to keep fighting, and Harry got to go to school, like a normal boy.

"The thirst finally manifested two years ago, near his eleventh birthday; after that, he had to switch schools. Salem isn't equipped to handle students with bloodthirst, so Harry has been attending Starfall Academy ever since. It's a boarding school, really, but with all that magical travel some students go home for weekends and holidays."

He looked down at his hands. "Harry needed family life wherever it could be had, and Whistler and I had jobs to do. The faculty at Salem put us in contact with a vampire community in West Virginia; that's where Harry goes when he's not at school.

"Before Salem, Whistler would take him out sometimes to play with kids at playgrounds, playing the grandfather; but after he started at Salem there was no time for that, not like Harry needed anyway."

He folded his hands in front of his face, resting his chin in the hollow of his palms. "I've been a vampire hunter for the whole of my adult life. It's what I know and what I do. But vampires or no, finding that community was a godsend. Harry nearly lost his chance at a normal life; it was more than I could have hoped for to give that back to him."

His eyes returned to Albus's from where they had been facing the desk. "I'm assuming that Secretary Adams told you we were willing to allow Harry to go to Hogwarts?"

Albus nodded.

Brooks's gaze didn't shift. "Well, we haven't asked Harry yet. He know we are meeting with you, and he might have guessed what about, but it will be his decision whether he goes or not."

Albus nodded. "Given his circumstances, it should be. Muggleborns face some discrimination in our society; given what Harry might face if people knew what he was, we should not make that choice for him."

Brooks's gaze turned hard, and shifted from Albus to Amelia. "One more thing. There will be no pretension about what Harry is. He goes as a vampire, or not at all."

This stunned Amelia. "I… had assumed you would rather keep it quiet."

Adams shook his head. "That would only backfire. At his age, Harry needs to have blood every third or fourth day. That time will shorten as he ages. We would only be able to hide it for so long. What would happen then? How would the British public, or your Ministry for that matter, react to finding out that he had been a vampire all that time, but hid it?"

She nodded. "Badly. I can see your point." She turned to Albus. "Albus, you know the law as well as I do. Will this work?"

Albus's face took on a pensive look as he concentrated, thinking hard. "If… if I recall correctly, the law does not actually restrict the rights of vampires _as such_. It defines vampires as those who die in sunlight."

Relief blossomed on Swambeck's face. "Yes, I believe it does. You said Harry is not affected by the sun?"

Brooks nodded. "He burns more easily than most, but what little sensitivity he gets from _nocturna_ is easily dealt with by standard sunscreen. He's no more likely to die from sun exposure than you are. My own sensitivity is still less than that."

Swambeck looked pleased. "There will still be the problem of public opinion, of course, but there should not be any actual legal problems with young Harry. He ought to even be able to claim his inheritance." Brooks and Whistler both looked curious at this, but neither asked.

Adams nodded. "With that settled, I believe we are done here?" he asked, looking from Brooks to Albus. Neither objected, so he continued, "Very well. My part in this is finished; so, thank you for coming, but I must prepare for my next appointment."

~~Scene break~~

Brooks and Whistler led the way out of the customs building. As they approached the edge of the wards, Swambeck spoke. "I must be getting back to England. I will begin the necessary paperwork regarding Mr. Potter's inheritance. Please inform me as soon as possible about whether he will be attending Hogwarts?" Albus nodded. "Then I shall be off." He strode off towards the Floo shed.

Albus turned to Brooks. "How will we be getting to Harry?"

Brooks reached into his coat, withdrawing a flat copper object. "Magical travel to Dennaville is restricted. Most magical enclaves have the towns at least mildly warded, for various reasons.

AN: Run out of inspiration for a while. Will swap this chapter out for one with a proper ending shortly.


End file.
